'Oh, well, as long as he's forty,' says Margie dryly. 'That's the rule.'
'The skinnier you get, the cheekier you get,' says Enigma.
'If this chap turns up, we'll get Connie's solicitor onto him. Ian! He's a clever boy. He'll soon set him straight.'
'Ian doesn't know the truth.'
'He knows the law-and the law is on our side.'
'I don't know that the law actually is on our side,' says Margie doubtfully.
'Of course it is!' says Enigma comfortably.
Margie scoops cake mixture into a tin. 'I hope so, Mum.'
Rose cracks another egg and thinks of Connie at nineteen, her young, strong, determined face in the moonlight, saying,
'Neither of us is going to jail, you ninny!'
She looks down into her bowl and sees that a piece of eggshell has fallen into the yolks. 'Oh sugar.'
45
'Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.'
'So I take it you found that-satisfying?'
'Satisfying! Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!'
'Gosh.'
'I just had no idea! I'm furious with myself! All those years I wasted with big hairy apes! What a fool! Why didn't I see?'
'Well, I don't want to blow my own trumpet, but you know it's not necessarily like this with every woman. It might be just this particular woman.'
'Oh, I only want this particular woman.'
'Really?'
'Oh my God, really!'
46
'The gardener will be better in bed.'
'He'll have filthy fingernails.'
'Who cares about the sex? She wants to have babies! She's got to get all practical and hard-headed and pick the right father for her children.'
'I just never saw Sophie with a solicitor. I always thought she'd be with an arty type.'
'The gardener sounds a bit backward if you ask me. What about that juvenile staring competition?'
'I thought that was sexy!'
'I thought it was weird. And he made those disgusting sandwiches for her.'
'Yes, Sophie has to have a man who can cook! What are they going to eat for dinner? Novelty cakes?'
'She's got to have a man who can match her intellectually.'
'Oh, and when did Sophie become such an intellectual giant? She watches reality TV!'
'The point is, she can't make any decisions until she sleeps with them.'
'She can't sleep with both of them!'
'She's been celibate for years. She needs to sleep with someone!'
'What if she gets pregnant and she doesn't know who the father is?'
'DNA testing.'
'Which one makes her laugh?'
'Which one turns her on the most?'
'Which one has the smallest head?'
'What?'
'That's what my grandmother always said to me, "Marry a man with a small head." She said, "You'll thank me when you're in labour."'
Sophie's high-school girlfriends rock back and forth, their faces creased like monkeys with uncontrollable, alcohol-fuelled mirth, as gale after gale of laughter sweeps the table. They're out to dinner at a Korean restaurant where you sit cross-legged on the floor around a low table. Sophie's love life is the favoured topic of conversation. There are detours: a five-year-old's sudden tantrum about going back to kindergarten after the holidays ('No, I've already done school, thank you, Mummy.'), a husband's sudden tantrum over a scheduled-for-months vasectomy ('He's scared his personality might change, like the dog's.'), a ferocious childcare centre manager, a senile mother-in-law, an outrageous parking ticket, an outrageous request for oral sex ('We'd been arguing the entire night. I seriously think his main objective was to shove something in my mouth to shut me up.'). However, no matter how hard Sophie tries to divert them they continually come back to the Sweet Solicitor/ Gorgeous Gardener conundrum. Sophie is the only unmarried, childless one in this unusually fertile circle of friends, and she is therefore the sole representative of her particular lifestyle choice. (Choice? Is it a choice? They all act like it's her choice.) She earns the most money, she's slept with more men, travelled more and seen more movies. (Apparently you can't go to the movies any more after you have children. Sophie keeps asking what about babysitters but her friends just exchange gently patronising 'she'll learn!' looks.) Whenever she is with this particular group Sophie swings constantly back and forth between pride and shame. You're a high-powered career woman. You're a dried-up desperado who can't find a man. You've succeeded. You've failed. You're the odd one out. You're the special one.
She doesn't want to talk any more about Rick or Ian. Mention of their names makes her feel obscurely guilty.
'I got my training for doing the tours of the Alice and Jack house the other day,' she says, and is pleased when she sets off a new flurry of conversation.
'Ooh, did you learn any inside information?'
Sophie chooses her words carefully, torn between the desire to show off with some juicy gossip and island loyalty. 'Not really, although sometimes I think the old ladies know more than they're telling me.'
'My nana always insisted it was something to do with the two sisters who found the baby. She said she remembered when it happened and looking at the photos of them in the newspaper and thinking the older one had shifty-looking eyes.'
Sophie jumps to defend her fairy godmother. 'That's Aunt Connie, and she had lovely honest brown eyes. She's the one who left me the house!'
'She's also the one who wrote you the letter talking about your Mystery Man, isn't she! I'm positive she meant the gardener.'
And they're off again. They don't really need Sophie there at all. They go on and on. Sophie quietly gets the attention of the waiter and orders more wine. While she is doing this it is agreed that tossing a coin would be the most sensible idea. If it's heads, it's a win for intellect and Ian. If it's tails, it's a win for sex appeal and Rick. A gold two-dollar coin is tossed high above the table and spins down to land with a splash in somebody's goat curry.
'Which one were you hoping for before it landed?' they all yell, excited by their clever psychological ploy. 'Whoever you were hoping for is the one you LOVE.'
Sophie thinks, Gosh, mothers really are such cheap drunks. She says truthfully, 'But I wasn't hoping for either of them.'
They're cross with her. 'Come on. Of course you were. You can tell us. We're your friends! What were you thinking about?'
She was actually thinking about how that pale blue jumper that everyone said really suited her would be the perfect thing to wear when she went around to Callum and Grace's place the next night. Not that it matters what she wears, of course, but still, that blue jumper will be just right.
She says, 'I was wondering about who was going to get voted off on the next episode of Survivor.'
They all groan. 'She's not even blushing,' says someone disappointedly.
The two-dollar coin is carefully fished out from the bottom of the goat curry. It's tails. Rick's supporters give each other high fives, a glass of wine is knocked over and the waiter arrives to ask hopefully if maybe they'd like him to bring the bill soon?
Sophie is over for dinner and Grace has let Callum light the fire for the first time since moving into her mother's place; the living room is all cosy, crackling shadows. Grace's mother only ever lit the fire when they had guests, and the next morning she would be up early, marching around with a can of hissing air-freshener held at arm's length, throwing open windows and pulling off cushion covers to be washed. But it's only a house, and Laura is so far away, on a Greek island complaining about fatty moussaka and pretending to be a different sort of mother.
(Why does no one say what they must all be thinking? Why does no one ask the question: What sort of mother decides to take a twelve-month around-the-world holiday a few weeks before her only daughter gives birth to her only grandson? And what sort of daughter has a mother like that?)
Sophie is holding Jake and sitting very comfortably on Grace's mother's sofa, looking
pretty and cheerful in a blue top. She is playing a game with the baby where she lifts him up under his armpits so his splayed legs dangle and then she buries her nose in his stomach, strands of her hair brushing against his nose. Each times she does this she makes a strange sound like: 'goobidy goobidy DOO!' Jake finds this side-splittingly funny. He convulses with anticipatory laughter as soon as she drops her head. Callum is on his knees next to them, poking away unnecessarily at the fire and laughing whenever Jake laughs.
Grace walks into the room with a heavy carafe of mulled wine and feels as though her whole body has come out in an intensely itchy rash. There is a dry clicking sound at the back of her throat. She wants to roll around on the carpet like a rabid dog. She wants to throw the carafe against the wall and see the hard glass shatter into thick fragments. She wants to scream something incoherent and stupid at them.
She says, 'Would you like to give him his bath, Sophie?'
Sophie puts the baby back in her lap and looks up at Grace in the flickering firelight. 'Oh, no, I'm not trained! I'd be frightened I'd drown him.'
Well, you'd better learn, stupid fucking bitch, with your fucking sweet dimples, or what are you going to do when I'm not around? It's like there's a mad old drunk lolling around in her head who suddenly lurches up to scream obscenities. What happens if she ever breaks free and takes control of Grace's tongue?
She smiles. 'Callum will show you what to do. He's better at bathing him than me.'
Perfect. The two of you together in a steamy bathroom with adorable splashing child away from me, away from me, away from me.
But then Callum stands up, all courteous crinkly eyed smiles, all handsome, new-age, home-improvement-show Daddy, and says, 'Why don't you two relax and have a drink while I give him his bath?'
BECAUSE I don't want to sit and make conversation with Little Miss Sweet and Clean and Cheery, can't you see that, can't you see that, I NEED, I NEED, I NEED...
She says, 'Sophie would probably like to see Jake have his bath,' and this time her voice has an unmistakeable, socially inappropriate hard edge that causes Callum's lips to draw together in that horrible hurt-little-boy way. Sophie stands up, pulling at the sleeves of her jumper so they cover her hands, like a teenage schoolgirl, and says, 'I'll come and hand you towels or something, Callum.'
Grace watches them go and thinks, I can't take this much longer.
Sophie sits on the edge of the bathtub holding the baby while Callum tests the bathwater with his elbow. 'So, how's it going with your two suitors?' he says. 'Anyone in the lead?'
'They're neck and neck.'
It's unsettling being in this small, brightly lit room with Callum. She can see a tiny shaving nick on his neck. He's a very large man. She feels an irresistible urge to place the flat of her hand against his chest.
'Have you got certain performance criteria? You can start undressing him, by the way.'
Sophie carefully lays the baby on his back on the change table and begins unbuttoning his suit. The fragrance of baby-bath liquid fills the room.
'Oh yes, I've got them both jumping through hoops,' she says. 'I hold up scoreboards at the end of each date.'
'I remember there was a girl in my school called Maria who kept an exercise book rating all the boys she kissed,' says Callum. 'Here-let Dad.' Jake is starting to squirm crossly as Sophie pulls ineffectually at his singlet. Callum pulls the singlet up and over Jake's head in one swift movement.
'Were you in Maria's scorebook?'
'Oh, every guy in year ten was in Maria's scorebook. We were all allowed one attempt. I thought I'd done pretty well but apparently not. I got four out of ten.'
'Oh no!'
'Yep. According to the comments, I went in too soon with the tongue. Maria specified a five-second lead-up. Also, I forgot to take my chewie out of my mouth. Apparently girls don't like that.'
Sophie guffaws. 'Oh, well, I'm sure you've improved dramatically.' She looks up at him. He is holding Jake's naked, mottled little body close to his chest. He has large hands; one hand nearly covers Jake's back. The bathroom is filled with scent and steam and the surprisingly loud sound of running water.
'Let's hope so.' Their eyes hold for just a fraction longer than is appropriate. Sophie drops her eyes and thinks, married, married, married.
Don't go there, thinks Callum, stroking his son's soft, vulnerable head. Don't go there, you fool!
47
What if Connie and Rose killed Alice and Jack together? What if they stabbed them, their innocent young-girl faces ravaged with hatred while blood splattered, the marble cake baked and the baby slept? It's early Saturday morning, the seventy-third Anniversary of Alice and Jack's disappearance, and Sophie wakes up in Connie's bed with this thought clear and horrible in her head. Perhaps that is the family secret.
For some reason, instead of feeling happily intrigued by anything to do with the Alice and Jack mystery, today she feels not exactly frightened, but unsettled, a little nervy. For the first time she isn't thinking of it as a story to enjoy, to puzzle over, but as something that really happened to real flesh-and-blood people, younger than Sophie, who most probably didn't want to die, thank you very much.
And if Connie and Rose did kill them...well, it wasn't very nice, was it? They'd made fools of everyone for all this time. They'd also made quite a lot of money out of their cover-up. It has been interesting to see the Alice and Jack business up close. Sophie has come to realise how cleverly they've developed the island so that everything looks charmingly comfy-never too slick. Visitors are given the carefully calibrated impression that the Alice and Jack house is a sweet family-run museum only opened as a generous favour to the public so they can share and marvel in this unusual history. Sophie herself had that impression, before she moved here. Now she knows that every possible opportunity to relieve people of their money is ever so sweetly exploited. There's nothing illegal or even especially underhand about it, of course. It's just the entrepreneurial spirit. It's good business. It's just that if it's all based on a murder, it's actually quite evil.
Sophie doesn't like the way her mind is heading. It's that same heart-sinking sensation you get a few weeks or months into a new relationship when you discover to your horror that your amazing new lover actually has a fault! Not just a sweet, quirky flaw but a really horrible fault, like the fact that the slow, methodical way he has of checking the bill actually indicates intense stinginess and it's not adorable at all-how could it ever have been adorable?-it's bloody ANNOYING. Sophie hates it when that happens.
She throws back her quilt and walks across the floorboards in her flannelette pyjamas to the window to watch the early morning shimmery haze above the river. It looks like a religious painting at this time of the morning. She doesn't want to fall out of love with the island, with her life, her new family.
But the other night, when she was out with the girls, for the first time she'd caught herself thinking wistfully about how she used to just hop in a cab and be home at her old flat in less than twenty minutes, instead of the long, rattling train trip followed by the boat trip across the water in the frosty moonlight.
Oh, but look at that view. It's worth some inconvenience.
This is the point in a relationship when you begin the process of carefully deluding yourself.
Tonight she will be selling pink fairy floss dressed up in a pink fairy dress complete with tiara and glittery wings. Apparently there are quite good margins in fairy floss.
Sophie makes tea in Connie's ceramic teapot. (Enigma saw her making tea with a teabag once and said sadly, 'Oh, darling, please don't do that', as if she'd caught a child picking their nose.)
As she waits for the kettle to boil she finds herself tentatively massaging her stomach. She's still got that feeling of apprehension she had when she first woke up. But why? Tonight will be fun. Tonight will be great!
Is she nervous about being the Fairy Floss Fairy? For heaven's sake, no. She'll love it.
Is she nervous because
both the Sweet Solicitor and the Gorgeous Gardener have said they'll be coming tonight? Not really. She's only been on one date with each of them. She's not exactly two-timing them. Besides which, Rick will be working-apparently he does a fire-eating performance-and Ian is just stopping by for a while before he has to go off to some family function. So there shouldn't be time for any awkwardness. Also, in her mind she tends to sort of amalgamate Ian and Rick into the one sweet, gorgeous gardener/solicitor. She's not nervous about them. They're both lovely.
No, it's something to do with that picture in her head of Connie and Rose wielding knives. And it's something to do with Callum. And Grace. And how much she wanted to kiss Callum in the bathroom the other night and the expression on Grace's face when they came back into the living room, as if she knew exactly how much.
Rose is dreaming that a slimy, silver, flapping fish is trying to hug her. She wakes up with her arms wrapped around an icy-cold flaccid hot-water bottle and cries out in disgust and shoves it away from her. You horrible, vile thing!
For a few seconds she lies there trembling with disgust, and then finally she forces herself to smile. Only a dream.
She rolls over-oh, how everything aches first thing in the morning. Nobody knows what an effort of will it requires for Rose to just get out of bed each day. She has to give herself a pep talk. 'Come on. You can do it. One leg. Second leg. That's it!' There should be a daily award ceremony. Congratulations on your achievement, Rose Doughty, you overcame terrible pain and got out of bed. Hooray!
Still, there's no need to get up just yet; she's not going swimming this morning. There always comes a point in winter where one day the water just gets so laughably icy that it's time to stop until spring. Sophie had clasped her hands together in prayer and said 'Thank you, God' when Rose had told her there would be no more swimming.
It's the Anniversary, again. It is astounding to believe that there are seventy-three years between this day and that day. Year after year after year. She can remember it clearer than things that happened much later. What did she do in the Seventies, for example? Nothing much that Rose could recall. That whole decade seemed to have taken about a week to live through. She remembered she'd liked the fashions. Colourful. And the children had been such a pleasure. Thomas used to sit on her lap for hours, sucking his thumb. Veronika, trotting around behind her, asking question after question after question. And Grace, painting in companionable silence beside her. Sometimes Rose would reach over and take her little paint-spattered hand and kiss her knuckles. Grace was never one for cuddles.